


Waiting I thru IX

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-30
Updated: 2001-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 05:03:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Post-Momemto Mori Langly waits up for Byers





	Waiting I thru IX

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Waiting by Alison

Title: WAITING by Alison  
Feedback to:   
Category: Langly/Byers slash (well, just implied)  
Archive: Unusual Suspects, Basement, Ephemeral, Gossamer: anywhere else just ask  
Disclaimer: They're not mine, etc  
Spoilers: slight for Unusual Suspects, Momento Mori  
Summary: Post Momemto Mori- Langly waits up for Byers  
Author Notes: I see the Langly/Byers relationship as being a comparatively recent development, i.e. not something that has been going on since they met. And I see Momento Mori as a pivotal episode for so many people, it seemed like a good place to start.

* * *

WAITING

LG Headquarters  
12.20 am

It's gone midnight, and he's not back yet.

Mel went to bed an hour ago, as soon as we got back. He said he'd had enough excitement for one day. Don't know if he was kidding or not. I said I'd wait up and let John in. Usually I can sleep anywhere, anytime, and I wanted to see if there had been any fallout from our little escapade. But there's nothing yet. Nothing on the police band, and nothing yet about the break-in at the Research Facility. I went straight back again into their mainframe but there was no evidence that we had been there. Surprising, since we know the police were there before we left, but they must have put the pressure on to get all the evidence removed. Big surprise.

We'd been been left hanging in the breeze by Mulder at the Institute. Left us on our own to get out and back to the van. What he found in the Institute, we still don't know. He didn't have time to tell us, but we know that he had to get out of there in a hurry. We heard shots over the radio link before he finally told us he was clear. Told us not to wait for John, that he'd asked John to go see Scully with an important message. Just like that, and just like always we jump whenever he snaps his fingers. God knows why - and who's the bigger fool - Mulder, or us for jumping to his every whim. What is it about this guy that makes us stick our necks out and nearly get ourselves killed. Lay our lives on the line every time he says "I need your help, boys".

I'm worried. Something is wrong. Something about John and the way he's been tonight.

We don't usually worry about each other. Or we don't show it. It's not part of the image. Not cool. Not part of our usual offhand cynical backbiting relationship. But tonight . . .

He was tense right from the start, even before we met Mulder. Obviously uncomfortable in that high necked sweater, he was fidgeting in the van on the way to the rendezvous, fiddling with the headset he would be using. At the time I put it down to our Narc's customary tight-ass reluctance to step over the line intio outright criminality. He's always been the straight arrow; given his history that's no surprise. He's had a longer journey to follow than either Mel or me.

Well, I was nervous myself. This is the first time we've ever gone out quite so far for Mulder. Well, for Scully really. Let's face it, there was no way we could turn him down.

One a.m - for Godsake, Byers, where are you? Haven't we had enough to worry about today? And we sure as hell can't ask Mulder for any help at the moment.

Mulder should have asked me to go see Scully. John's learnt a lot from us in the last few years, but he's still too *narc*. He doesn't walk on the dark side as easily as I do. If he's been stopped by the cops -

The buzzer sounds and I check the front door monitor. A dark shadow, head bowed - but it can't be anyone else at this time of night. When I open the door he pushes past me without a word - unusual for our mannerly John. It's been raining and his coat is wet, his hair and beard dripping. I lock up and follow him.

He's dumped his coat in a heap on the couch - another first. Usually it would be hung up carefully in the passageway. He's in the kitchen, fiddling with the coffee pot with one hand and wiping at his hair with a towel in the other. The top of the coffee pot flies off and lands on the floor, and he curses fluently as he bends after it. I'm impressed - I didn't think he had it in him. Then I see his hand is shaking.

"Hey, you're shivering" [Yes, I can so be diplomatic when necessary]. "Why don't you go and sit down in the back, it's warmer in there, and I'll bring the coffee"

He acquiesces, still without a word. His face is pale and taut as he brushes past me. I make the coffee and grab the bottle of whiskey from the pantry shelf. Take it all in and sit down opposite him, tilt the bottle over his mug - he nods. Reaches for the coffee and takes a long swallow. Shuts his eyes and lets out a long breath.

I'm beginning to get really freaked out. This is so weird for John. Really out of character for our Narcboy. Take a slug of whiskey-laden coffee. Think how to begin. Look up at him.

And it's then that it hits me like a sledgehammer blow in my gut.

Why did I never notice before that he's beautiful? With his hair damp and rumpled, huddled in the corner of the couch in that dark pullover, his eyes wide, shadowed and dark - he looks so different, younger, much more vulnerable, scared. It suddenly occurs to me that without the beard, he'd look about 18 - and that's probably why he grew it. It makes me feel -what - protective? Usually he's the sensible one, but tonight I feel so much older. Like an older brother. Or I just want to find out what happened and make sure it never happens again.

"Did you get to Scully", I finally manage.

He nods. "Yeah . . . no problem there. You know, she believed me without hesitation? I just had to say "Mulder says you have to do this ...." and she'd have done anything he said. Didn't even ask how or why. But . . . ."

"What?"

"She looks bad, Langly. I've seen people look like that before. . . too many people. I don't know how much longer she can go on."

"She's a fighter. She won't give up."

He nods again, and rubs his eyes as if he's seen too much today. "I've seen too many people die from cancer. And going into that hospital, you know - it brought it all back. The smell, the atmosphere, the lights and the look of the place - it brought it all back. Made me want to throw up. Not for the first time tonight."

His hands are gripping the coffee mug, turning it round and round, then clasping it as if for warmth. I find myself fascinated by his hands. Long sensitive fingers, strong and capable - I suddely wonder what they would feel like, stroking, gripping, wrapped round my .... no, think of something else for Gossake . . .

"So what else happened?"

"I nearly blew it, that's what" he snaps.

"What?"

"In the Lombard . . . when Mulder asked me to get out and go see Scully. I was on my way back out when the police came in with that guy with the gun."

Not a good time for me to tell him I could see him on the monitor cowering like a frightened rabbit. But what the hell, Ringo, would you have done anything else?

Now he's started talking, he can't stop. "Jesus Langly, I've never been so scared since that time in Baltimore . . . I thought I'd shit myself. And then I heard the shots and I thought they'd found Mulder . . . I didn't know what to do. I got out of there, part of me was telling myself I was doing it for Scully and the other half was telling me I should go back and try to help Mulder . . . how does he do it, Langly? How does he do things like that almost every day?"

Okay, time for some straight talking before our Narcboy talks himself into a flat spin. "Well, how about years of training for a start? And he's had years of experience. You can't compare your reactions with his. He wouldn't expect you to".

"Yeah, but . . ."

"And since we're talking about Baltimore, let me remind you who put his life on the line then? What you did that day, when that black guy put the gun to your head and you thought he was going to blow your head off? But you kept challenging him, questioning him, even with the gun to the back of your head. I tell you man, I've never seen anything to compare with that before or since. Don't you tell me you're a coward."

He takes a deep breath and looks at me. God, those blue eyes .. .

"Yes, but that was different. That was for Suzanne."

"Yeah, and what Mulder did tonight . . . that was for Scully."

He starts to say something, looks surprised, then lets out a half sigh, half laugh. "You may have something there".

"I'm right, aren't I."

"Maybe . . ."

We sit at the table in a companiable silence. When the coffee is finished he rubs his hand over his face, grimaces and says "Well, I ought to try and get some sleep, I suppose. Don't feel much like it, though."

"Take a warm shower first, that'll help".

"Yeah, I might do that. Thanks Langly".

But what I'd really like to happen is for me to take him back to the bathroom and get him out of that ridiculous sweater and the rest of his clothes . . . get into the shower with him until we're both warm and relaxed . . . and make love to him until he falls asleep from exhaustion.

Or put it another way, I want to drag him back to the bedroom, push him down onto the bed and fuck him senseless.

But that's not going to happen.

And he goes off towards the bathroom and presently I hear the sound of the shower running. I ache to follow him, and in my mind I do, watching him strip off and step under the warm running water, seeing the water streaming over his shoulders, down his back and over his ass, waiting for him to turn and face me . .

He's right - he probably won't sleep.

And neither will I.

END

Feedback: yes please, to 

 

* * *

 

This was inspired by the recent "I Love You" virus scare - I wondered how Byers would react if he got an anonymous love letter? And yes, I know that he would definitely know better than to open an anonymous e-mail message, but I was having too much fun!

"There is no more emotionally charged phrase in the language than "I love you" (Frasier Crane)

"Watching" by Alison  
Sequel to Waiting  
Feedback:   
Disclaimer: They're not mine etc  
Category: Langly/Byers implied slash (well, I'm getting there)  
Archive: Unusual Suspects, Basement, Ephemeral, Gossamer: anywhere else just ask

* * *

It's a slow autumn afternoon in the Lone Gunmen HQ, and Langly is pissed off. The trail he's been following for the last two hours has proved to be a dead end, and he's tired and bored. His shoulders are tense and cramped from leaning over the keyboard all afternoon, and his eyes are aching.

Usually he would relieve his bad mood with a few digs at Frohike, but the oldest Gunman was up all night and is now sleeping it off in the back.

He finds himself looking across covertly at Byers, as he seems to be doing more and more these days. His friend is absorbed in something he's hacked into, his intense blue eyes locked on the computer screen and oblivious to anything else. A stray beam of sunlight from the only window is slanting down across the dimly lit room and turning his red-brown hair to the colour of New England autumn leaves. He's leaning his chin on his hand, the long capable fingers stroking through his beard.

There suddenly doesn't seem to be enough air in the room for Langly. His chest is tight and there's a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He pushes himself to his feet abruptly and takes a deep breath.

"I'm getting nowhere here. I'm gonna take a break, get some fresh air."

Byers blinks and looks up distractedly. "Sure, okay . . . be back by dinnertime?"

Langly nods and heads out, stopping in the bathroom on the way. Leaning over the basin he splashes cold water on his face, then stares at himself in the mirror. "Nice one, Ringo . . your best yet. You've got the hots for your best friend. How're you gonna get out of this?"

He's been living with this knowledge, yet trying *not* to acknowledge it, for months - no, more than a year now. Ever since the night at the Lombard Clinic when they could have been killed, he has been trying to come to terms with the feelings churned up by that night's events. Thoughts of John Byers have filled his waking moments and his nightly hours as well. Living side by side as they do, John is hardly ever out of his sight, and while Langly is grateful for every minute he can spend observing John without his behaviour being noticed either by Frohike or John himself, but it is leading to a severe case of frustration.

Langly's fantasies are taking up more and more of his hours, waking and sleeping. They usually involve him saving John's life or otherwise earning his undying gratitude, an appreciation his friend is only too willing to show in the most gratifying form.

And times like their recent trip to Las Vegas are both a delight and a sweet torture to Langly. Sharing a room with him, in even closer proximity than usual; seeing him half naked on the way to the shower or dressing; waking up in the night and seeing him sleeping in the next bed, his face calm and peaceful, his body exposed and vulnerable.

This is all compounded by the realisation that this is not just about sex. Much as he aches to have him, he finds himself also wanting to protect his friend; to look after him. Not just to fuck him, but to make love to him. He dreams of being able to wake up in the middle of the night to find John sleeping not in the next bed, but in his arms; to be able to just watch him sleeping, to lie awake listening to his breathing.

His inner turmoil, however, has had some strange effects on his outward demeanor. He finds himself tempted by some inner demon to provoke John, to tease him more than he did before, with two-edged remarks designed to bring a blush to his reserved colleague's face. Sneers about women and the lack of them in their lives, which make John bite his lip and look away, his face closing up.

He feels he's got to do something, say something, or he will explode. But how can he tell his *most definitely straight* friend how he feels? John would be out of there so fast there would be a sonic boom. Better not to say anything, Langly tells himself desperately. At least we can be friends and I can see him every day. That's got to be enough.

At least that's what he's telling himself.

He leaves the HQ and drives aimlessly downtown, glad of the need to concentrate on the heavy homegoing commuter traffic. He parks a couple of hundred yards from the Mall and gets out and walks.

A group of Australian tourists are cluttering up the sidewalk ahead of him, their backpacks almost knocking other pedestrians into the road. They are hanging about outside an internet cafe and talking about picking up their e-mail, and then it's like a lightbulb coming on in Langly's head.

He hesitates for barely a minute outside before making a decision and going in. He takes a terminal at the back and gets to work. It's the matter of a few minutes' work to access an anonymous internet account the other guys don't know about, a false name and id, and hack into an ISP he knows as well as the back of his own hand.

He types his message and then spends another while tweaking the settings, navigating its path through the arcane labyrinthine backwaters of the Net, bouncing from service provider to service provider across the Web until not even his colleagues would be able to trace it back. His final touch is to set a delayed delivery, giving him time to get back to HQ before the message is received. He clicks the final "send" with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, mixed with the illicit thrill of finally giving in to temptation.

Back in the car he is surprised to find his heart is hammering with excitement as the visualises the arrival of his message. Arriving back at HQ he finds Frohike awake and cooking dinner, and the next couple of hours is taken up with the regular evening routine of eating, watching a game on TV, bickering about this and that, until Byers gets up and goes to his terminal as he always does at this time to check his email.

Langly casually drifts after him, takes a seat across from him so he can see Byers' face. That tight feeling is back in his chest again as Byers opens his email programme. His eyebrows shoot up.

"Hey . . ."

"What is it"

"Anonymous message. I don't recognise the source . ."

His voice trails off as he opens the message. A faint flush appears on his face.

"What *is* it?"

"Um . . . I suppose you'd better look. This is weird . . ."

The other two peer over his shoulder at the screen. They see a pale blue screen with two lines of Gothic type in a large font:

    "John Fitzgerald Byers

    I Love You."

Langly has planned his "reaction" carefully. He snorts in derision.

"Woo-hoo, Byers . . you got a secret admirer! Way to go, Narcboy!"

Byers' flush deepens. He splutters:

"Look, it's probably just a joke .. . one of our contacts having a laugh."

"C'mon, John, you can tell us. Where did you meet her? At the library? In the candy store?"

Byers is scarlet with embarrassment now. God, he looks hot. Langly opens his mouth for one final dig but Frohike cuts him off.

"Have either of you two dorks thought it might be a virus? Or *someone* attempting to access our systems? Delete it, now!"

Byers shakes his head. "Unlikely, with the firewalls we have set up. Let me try and trace it first."

Frohike parks his butt on the edge of the desk and stares at Byers until he meets his eyes. "Think it might be Suzanne?"

Across the room Langly freezes. He hadn't thought of that implication. But Byers shakes his head again.

"No, it's not Suzanne. We're very careful about always using coded messages."

For the next half hour or so Byers works on the e-mail, while Langly watches with a mixture of glee tinged with guilt. Nothing turns you on like watching the one you love doing something he's good at. And damn, John's good. But not *quite* as good as me.

Eventually he pushes his chair away from the desk with a sigh, and moodily stares at the screen. He reaches out one more time and taps "Ctrl-Del" and the message is irretrievably gone.

"Dumped it?"

"Yep."

"So we'll never know."

"No". He smiles crookedly at Langly. "I did think for a moment it might be Suzanne."

Shit. Who was it said "you always hurt the one you love".

Looks like another sleepless night.

End 2/?

Part 3? Well, maybe . . .

Feedback to: 

 

* * *

 

WANTING by Alison

Sequel to 1. Waiting and 2. Watching  
Feedback to:   
Category: Langly/Byers slash, Langly POV  
Disclaimer: They're not mine etc  
Archive: Unusual Suspects, Basement, Ephemeral, Gossamer: anywhere else just ask  
Spoilers: Minor for Unusual Suspects, Three of a Kind  
Note: Can't get them in the sack yet - still having too much fun making Langly suffer!

* * *

It's midnight, I'm sitting on a bench by the Potomac and I'm pissed. Pissed off and pissed, in both senses of the word.

I walked out earlier this evening. A dignified exit I hope, although I could hardly see where I was going. And since then I've been bestowing my presence on half a dozen of my favourite bars all over downtown.

I'm in deep shit this time. And maybe this time there's no going back. So I walked out. All Mel had time to say was that he didn't know what had gotten into me.

I wish I knew what had gotten into me too.

Well, I do of course. It's John. It's always John.

It's crazy I know. We've lived together, side by side, best friends, for so long - years and years - and now suddenly I can't stop thinking about him. Can't stop looking at him - I can't belive he hasn't noticed.

More than a year now. Ever since the night at the Lombard. That was when it started, when we got home. We talked, like we'd never done before. And it was like I'd never seen him before. Never noticed him in that way. He was tired and cold and scared and his defences were down. And then he went off to take a shower, and I wanted to go with him. Go with him and be with him and make love to him.

But I didn't of course and I've been regretting it ever since. And imagining what it would have been like. I think about it all the time. He needed me then and I should have taken the opportunity. But I lost it then and I'll probably never get another chance.

If I could get him to see me as more than a friend. But it won't happen. And even if the idea didn't disgust him, I'm hardly his type. We're so different.

It's driving me crazy being so close to him and not being able to say or do anything. And - this is the weird part - I find myself almost hating him at the same time. I have this urge to provoke him, tease him. It just turns me on when he gets embarrassed, upset . . . it makes him . . . well, vulnerable, I guess. Usually he's so composed, controlled . . . but when he gets flustered, it's like I see another side of him. And it's all I can do not to grab him and pin him to the wall.

It really gets to him when I give him a hard time about Vegas. Okay, I had some justification, with him losing our stake in the poker game. And I don't let him forget it. Or about how his impulses nearly got us all killed again.

And a few carefully chosen barbs about Susanne - that really gets under his skin. Of course I have to be careful because my track record isn't that much better, but I can cover myself there by referring to us *both* as "losers" - and it gets to him. Oh, it does, and sometimes he has to walk out, retreat to his room, or if all else fails just ignore me. And Mel looking disapproving, but what the hell? He can just shut the hell up.

And there are other little things too. Like those anonymous e-mail messages I've been sending him.

In a way it's like I'm trying to blow the lid off things, to start a fight - the sort of fight that ends with things being said that probably should stay secret.

But in this case it would only end one way - bye bye Byers.

I hate myself when I do these things to him. But it's like I just can't stop myself. It's like I'm thinking, if he's unhappy, perhaps he'll turn to me, confide in me, open up . . . and that would be my chance. And he'd never know it was my fault in the first place.

Or am I trying to punish him, for not seeing what is in front of him? For not wanting me as I want him?

So anyway, Susanne was the subject again today. Never fails. I can't remember exactly how it started, but Mel made some remark about how he thought Jeri Ryan was hot (surprise!) and I had to say, hoo boy, don't you think so John? And he looked up kinda surprised, as if he'd never thought about it, and said sure, yes. And something just let go in my head and I said, oh yeah, what would you know about it anyway, you're the guy who's waiting for some broad he's met twice in ten years.

He got up so fast I thought he was going to hit me. I'd never got a reaction like this before. And then . . . it wasn't so much what he said. It was how he looked at me. Disgust, contempt . . . revulsion . . . I'm just trying to convince myself I didn't see hatred in his eyes. Anything but that.

All he said was, in a quiet controlled voice that was so much worse than if he'd yelled at me was to leave him the fuck alone, his private life was none of my business and I was in no position to make judgements about him and Susanne. And then he just looked at me again and I felt about six inches tall. So I got out of there as fast as I could.

And now here I am sitting on this shitty bench in downtown Washington wondering where I go from here. If I'm going anywhere. And trying not to see that look in his eyes.

I thought I could live with it. But I can't any longer. I want him so much.

There's this picture I haven't been able to get out of my mind for months now. Ever since that night. I've been replaying it in my mind ever since. The way it should have been . . . I can see it now . . .

I'd be waiting for him when he came out of the shower, and offer to give him a back rub to help him sleep. Brisk and impersonal, don't want to scare him off at this stage. Then I get him to lie down on the bed while I go to get the oil. I sit on the bed beside him, no threat, and start slow and gentle on his shoulders.

Talking all the time about this and that, nothing heavy, just what we've been working on recently. Try and make him laugh. Get him to relax.

Then I work my way slowly down his back. Lean over him and let my hair brush his shoulder blades. He's relaxed by now, drowsy and calm. I let my strokes turn gradually to caresses, down his spine and the small of his back to his ass. Let him realise gradually without words where this is leading. And I let my hands rest just there and say "Do you want me to go on". . .and he turns his head and says "Don't stop . . ."

And I pull gently at his shoulder and he turns over, I bend down to him, and his arm comes up round my neck and pulls my mouth down to his. And he would want me as much as I want him. And then it would be so good. I'd make him forget all the fear and guilt and pain, and unlock the passion I know is there. He cares so much, if he cared for me in the way I want, we would be incredible together. . .

I wake up to find I'm cold and aching, still sitting on this shitty bench with a hard on the size of a baseball bat from thinking about what I'd like to do to John. Thinking about him, tall and slim, his hands on me, my hands in his copper-bronze hair, long legs and that gorgeous ass . . . oh yeah . . . John .  
.

Colder still now and wet and sticky. Clean myself up with a tissue, straighten myself up and look around. No - one around - just as well. Don't want to be picked up for public indecency.

I'm gonna have to move. This part of downtown is no place for anyone to be on their own at this time of night, even if I wasn't smashed. I've no money left, but the muggers wouldn't know that until it was too late. Knife in the ribs and straight into the water - no ID - nothing to show until the guys pick up on the police scanner that a long blond haired hippy type has been fished out of the river. Nice farewell present for the guys that would be.

No, I'm gonna have to go back. It's late and I've nowhere else to go anyway. He'll have gone to bed so I won't have to face him tonight. And in the morning I can say something - say I wasn't feeling well or something - and maybe he'll tell me to forget it. Yes, he probably will. He doesn't have it in him to bear a grudge. He's one of the few truly good people I know.

It's one of the things about him that I love.

END

 

* * *

 

Thought it was about time I posted something . . .

WONDERING by Alison  
No. 4 in the "Waiting" series: the same night: Byers POV  
Feedback to:   
Category: Langly/Byers  
Disclaimer: They're not mine etc  
Archive: Unusual Suspects, Basement, Ephemeral, Gossamer, anyone else just ask  
Spoilers: Minor for Three of a Kind  
Summary: Byers gets a shock

* * *

Damn Ringo Langly. Damn and damn and damn him.

What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he doing this to himself, to us? Don't we all have enough on our minds, enough to worry about without wondering where he's got to, if he's okay, if he's out there again somewhere getting smashed or worse.

And he's screwed up my entire evening too. I'm supposed to be researching some UFO reports for Mel's article and all I can do is sit here and stare at nothing. I'm so angry, I just want to kick his ass all the way from here to Arlington.

Why is he doing this? What's bugging him? And why is he taking it out on me?

He's got a lot worse since Las Vegas. It was coming on before, but not nearly so bad. The odd sarcastic remark, sneering comment, but then he's always been sharp tongued. But it was when we got back from Vegas that I really started to notice it.

So - what about Vegas? I thought at first it must be the money, but I settled that long ago. I insisted on paying the guys back, put $2000 of my own money back in our holding account. So it can't be the money.

I wondered if it could be the drug they gave him. But Susanne was pretty sure the antidote was reliable and there were no side-effects. Scully certainly was okay. So it can't be that.

I wondered if perhaps it just threw him that he was programmed to kill Susanne. Or that it was my fault we could all have been killed. Or Jimmy being killed. Or any one of the things that happened that weekend.

But it doesn't matter. "Why" isn't the problem. I can't get past "what" yet. What he said.

When I yelled at him this evening, it was the last straw - I told myself I'd taken his crap for long enough, it was time to tell him where to get off. And boy, yes, it did feel good to see Mister Ringo Langly on the receiving end for a change. And to see the hurt look in his eyes, mirroring the way I know I look when he dishes it out to me. Yeah, it felt good at the time.

Only now, of course, he's got me feeling guilty too. I shouldn't have lost my temper with him. It's not like it was the first time. But why *now*, why this time, was it suddenly too much to take? If I'm honest with myself -because he was only saying what I've been coming to realise myself for a while now. That he's right.

What is it he calls me? A pathetic geek, who's been waiting ten years for a woman he's seen just twice in all that time.

Twice. In ten years.

When we came back from Vegas, I was on a high, euphoric. I'd seen her again, she remembered me, it was as if the last ten years had never happened. She gave me the ring, kissed me, said "some day . . .". And it was if all those endlessly repeating dreams might really come true, one day.

It was that dream that made me realise. After Vegas, I stopped having that dream. I thought it was because I'd seen the chance that it might come true, but I know now it was the opposite. It never could come true, and it never will.

It's taken me some time to realise it, but I wasn't so much on a high as in free fall. And it took a while, but now I've hit the ground.

Ten years. Is it going to be another ten years before I see her again? Will she wait that long? Would she want to? Would she still want me? Hell, did she ever want me? When I told her it was too dangerous for us to be together, she didn't argue. She let me send her away. If she really wanted to be with me, she would have stayed.

And that dream - would she want that too? The white house with the picket fence, the children, the dog - how do I know what she really wants? I hardly know her at all.

Ten years wasted on a dream. I'm beginning to see that now. But, God, it hurts to let go. To admit I've been wrong, to relinquish the security of a beautiful dream of "some day".

Langly was right. He may not have been very tactful about it, but he was right. I've spent ten years chasing a dream, and I've got to let it go.

I guess I should go and find Langly, tell him he's right.

I come back to earth to realise that Mel has been speaking to me. "John?"

He doesn't often call me by my first name, and this was enough to get my attention. "Yeah?"

"He'll be back. Don't worry, he can look after himself."

"Yeah, I know. That's not what's bugging me."

He looks enquiringly at me. I lean back, avoiding his eyes.

"He's right, isn't he? What he said. About me, I mean. And Susanne. I've been thinking a lot recently - and he is right. I am a pathetic geek. And I have been wasting my life, waiting for Susanne when we can never be together."

"Whoa, buddy, slow down there . . .

"Sorry, Mel . . . I don't want the "buddy" routine right now, okay? Just leave me alone."

But after a minute or two more I just can't take Mel's careful silence and cautious sideways glances any more, and I push the laptop away. "Maybe I should go look for him."

Frohike shrugs. "He could be anywhere by now. Look, he'll be okay. He's like a cat, he'll come back but not before he's ready."

He's right of course. Langly can look after himself if anyone can. But it doesn't stop me feeling bad about it anyway.

Maybe I should go and look for him.

I slam the laptop shut and go to look for my coat, but before I can find it the door buzzer sounds. I nearly rupture myself getting there before Mel does. All these damn locks - do we really need so many?

Langly's standing there, swaying from side to side. He's even more ratty and rumpled than usual, and boy, is he drunk. He stares at me, blinking and trying to focus. His mouth opens and closes several times before any words come out.

"John . . . John . . . hey buddy . . ."

I step back to let him in, but he just leans against the wall, frowning in an effort to concentrate.

"Hey buddy . . about this evening . . . uh . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Don't know what got into me . .. I didn't mean it . ." he mumbles, repeating himself like a stuck record. He staggers forward and grabs me by the shoulders. "Please John . . ."

I'm just relieved he's basically okay, but I can't let him see that. "OK, Langly it's OK . ."

"I didn't mean it. I shouldn't have said it. It's just . . .I hate to see you wasting your life. You're wasting your life, man . . ." and he clutches me tighter, leans forward and rests his head on my shoulder.

What can I do but squeeze his shoulders gently. "It's OK, Ringo, forget it. You're drunk. You ought to get to bed."

Langly raises his head and I'm amazed to see tears on his cheeks. Oh yeah, he's at the self-pitying stage. He sniffs and wipes his face with the back of his hand. "Sorry" he mutters again.

"Right, now come on, we'd better get you cleaned up and into bed", and I slip an arm round him and steer him in the direction of the bedrooms, waving off Frohike's offer of help.

Halfway across the room, he stumbles and falls onto the couch, still holding tight to me and dragging me down alongside him. "You're a good friend, John. . . he hiccupps and giggles with the abrupt change of mood of the very drunk, wrapping one arm round my neck. "Hey, gorgeous . . . why don't you stay with me . . . let's get comfy."

Oh Jeez . . . he's never been this bad before. I pull myself away and stand up. "Come on, Ringo, you don't know what you're saying. Let's get you to bed, you'll feel better."

He giggles again, squinting up at me. "Sure, if you'll stay with me . . . C'mon John, don't be a party pooper, we can have some fun . . "

Ringo . . . why are you doing this to yourself? I reach down and pull him up, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He leans on me heavily, forcing me to stop, and gazing intently at me. "John . . . I wanna thank you . . . I love you, John . ."

Omigod . . . I just hope he doesn't remember *this* in the morning. I tug on his arm again, and he obediently follows me down the corridor towards his bedroom.

"You're a good friend, John, did I ever tell you you're beautiful . . ." I fervently hope Frohike didn't hear *that*, while tugging his teeshirt off and discovering too late that he's been sick down the front. And no, I am *not* gonna do the nursemaid act and clean him up, he can damn well stay dirty and smelly and sticky till the morning. Let him wake up like that and see what sort of state he gets himself into. He flops onto the bed and I take his sneakers off, pull him into the recovery position so he won't choke, and go to get a glass of water to leave by the bed.

When I get back he's fast asleep already and snoring gently, so I pull the blankets up to his neck. He's a bit cold - must find something more to put over him. Another blanket; under the bed, maybe. No; maybe in the nightstand - wait, what's this -

Oh Jeez. Another one of his porn mags that we're not supposed to know about. Definitely not one of the kind he and Frohike trade between them and offer to me occasionally - this has a picture of a lean, young and totally naked guy on the front.

Well, I've always known Langly swings both ways - he tries to keep this side of his nature hidden around us, but I've seen him bring gay porn tapes home sometimes, he watches them in the middle of the night when Mel and I are both asleep. And a couple of times when I've had to go to his PC to find something, I've come across pictures he's downloaded.

It doesn't really bother me as much as he probably thinks - I can think back to a couple of experiences of my own before we met. It might even surprise him to know what this pathetic geek got up to at college. Oh well, that was a long time ago. I lean to put the magazine back where I found it.

With curiosity I see something in the drawer that looks strangely familiar, and casually pull it out for a better look. What the hell is this doing here? My old blue undershirt, that I was wearing last week and threw in the laundry basket and couldn't find it again - crumpled and still unwashed and - stained - how . . . what . .

I let it fall from my hand as I see what is below it in the drawer. A pile of photographs.

Photographs of me.

Photographs I've never seen before.

Photographs of me, taken here in the HQ - oh yes, I remember - earlier this year when Mel and I gave Ringo a new digital camera for his birthday, he spent hours prancing round taking practice shots of us all over the place .. . he said most of them were so bad, he'd trashed most of them . . .

There's one of me sitting at my desk, staring at the computer screen, frowning - what was I looking at? And another of me in the kitchen, leaning on the counter top with a mug of coffee in my hand, talking to Mel.

And then a lot taken outside, that's right, he dragged me off around Washington on the tourist trail, taking more "practice" shots. That hot summer day, he made me change my suit for something more casual, so there I am in my cotton pants and open-necked shirt with my sleeves rolled up, jacket slung over my shoulder.

There's one of me at the top of the Washington Monument, leaning on the barrier looking out over the city. It's not a bad photo of me, except that the wind is blowing my hair all over the place.

There's one of me by the reflecting pool, again not bad except that I've got a big silly grin on my face, we'd just seen two kids on roller blades go smack into each other and I told Ringo he'd never make a journalist, he should have snapped the kids - he was laughing so much, I didn't think he'd got a shot at all.

There's one of me by the coffee stall at the entrance to the park, rather uncharacteristically with my hands in my pockets, slouching . . . why did he keep that one?

There's one of the two of us - oh yes, that Japanese couple asked us to take one of them, and then Ringo was using sign language, getting them to take one of us in return . . . he was goofing about, putting his arm round my shoulders to make them laugh . . .

Here's one he must have taken a few days later, when the three of us drove up to Buffalo to see that guy who was a friend of Thinker. Driving back, when I'd finished my turn at the wheel I crawled in back and went to sleep. So there's one of me curled up on the back seat with my hair in my eyes and my mouth open, fast asleep.

And here, last of all, there's another one of me asleep.

Here, in the HQ, in my own room. In my own bed.

And god help me, it's only now that the implications of all this suddenly hit me and knock the breath out of me.

This last picture. I'm asleep, curled on my side as I usually do, head resting on one arm and my face half buried in the pillow. I'm wearing those old blue pajamas I should have thrown out years ago, with most of the buttons missing off the top that I keep meaning to replace. Another warm night it must have been, because I've pushed the blanket half off of me and I'm lying there half naked.

Omigod . . .

There's only one way he could have taken that shot. He must have sneaked into my room after I was asleep and . . .

I don't know how long I've been sitting here, on the floor by Ringo's bed with my head resting on the side only inches away from his outstretched hand. The pictures have fallen from my hand and are scattered all over the floor like the remains of a present-unwrapping session on Christmas morning. And Ringo is blissfully asleep behind me completely unaware that he's just put his fist through my entire life and shattered it like a broken mirror, and my self-image is lying in pieces on the floor along with all the scattered pictures.

Ringo . . . omigod . . . now I see . . .

I come to my senses with almost panic, feeling I have to get out of there before either Ringo wakes up and sees me and all this stuff, or Frohike walks in. Don't know how I manage to scramble all the pictures back together and shove them back in the drawer with the shirt on top, stumble dizzily to my feet and get the hell out of there.

Ringo . . . Jesus . . .

But I must have managed it somehow because here I am in my own room with the door shut, my breath is coming fast and my heart pounding, my hands are shaking.

Ringo . . .

And I have all night to decide just what the hell to do now.

End

Feedback: yes please, to 

 

* * *

 

WAKENING by Alison  
No. 5 in the "Waiting" series: starts the night after "Wondering"  
Feedback to:   
Category: Langly/Byers implied slash  
Disclaimer: They're not mine etc  
Archive: Unusual Suspects, Basement, Ephemeral, Gossamer, anyone else just ask  
Spoilers: Nope  
Summary: Byers is getting all hot and bothered.

* * *

Day 1, 5 AM

November is not a good time to have a sleepless night. Long, dark, cold night, and the dawn is a long time coming.

Byers couldn't remember a night when he had lain awake without sleep at least touching him briefly. Until tonight.

Ringo.

//Jesus. How long has this been going on? How long has he felt like this? Why didn't he tell me?//

  - Listen, you stupid bastard. Of course he didn't tell you. What would you have done if he had? If the situation had been reversed, would you tell *him*?

Byers sat up in bed for the twentieth time and buried his head in his hands.

//I don't know. God . . I don't know anything anymore. What the hell do I do? 5 a.m . . . .How do I face him in the morning?//

  - Get up and do something. Anything. Don't just lie there beating yourself over the head.

He hauled himself out of bed and shuffled into the office, switching on his computer on the way to the kitchen. Back to the office with a cup of tea, sit down and log on. Do *something*. *Anything*.

He did manage to lose himself for a while in the DOD personnel files, to the extent that when the door to the sleeping quarters crashed open a couple of hours later, he nearly jumped out of his skin. But it was only Frohike on his way to the kitchen, bleary eyed and yawning before his first cup of coffee. Byers breathed a sigh of relief. Not Langly then, thank God. But when he wakes up . . .

"Hey Byers, take this in to Langly willya?"

"Whaaaa?"

"C'mon, do me a favour, take this in to Langly. He's awake and complainin'."

Oh shit.

Oh well, better get it over with. He took the glass of water and packet of Tylenol and headed towards Langly's room. Hesitated outside, his stomach fluttering. Oh god . . .

//What are you scared of? It's only Langly. He doesn't know that you know. And he doesn't have to. Stop making like a timid virgin. Get in there!//

He knocked briefly, once, and pushed open the door.

Langly was propped up against the headboard, his eyes closed. He had taken off his filthy teeshirt from the night before and was bare chested. Smooth bare chest, nice pecs, firmly defined biceps . . . Byers' mouth was suddenly dry. Jesus, what am I thinking of? It's not like I've never seen him before.

Langly opened his eyes. "Hi".

"Er . . . hi. How're you feeling?" Oh, very intelligent John.

"Whaddya think, like shit of course. Is that Tylenol?"

"Oh, yes. . ."

"Well, I can't reach it from here John. Can you bring it over here?"

"Um, yes, here you are." C'mon, he won't bite! Act natural for gossake! Or he'll realise something's wrong.

He forced himself to walk across the room and even sit down on the bed next to Langly. Langly took the packet with a grunt of thanks, but yelled as Byers nearly dropped the water glass in his lap in an effort to hand it to him without touching him. "Jeez Byers, anyone would think it was you that got smashed last night."

Langly gulped the pills with what was left of the water and leaned back, closing his eyes again. Byers swallowed, unable to take his eyes off Langly. He felt like a rabbit in the headlights, unable to move. So close to him now, he could see the thick fair eyelashes against the pale skin, the gold stubble coming through on his cheeks, the tangled mess of blonde hair on the pillow, on his shoulders . . . . how come he's built like that when he never works out? Even I take more exercise than he does. He's even got nice abs and all he does is sit at the computer all day . . . .

Langly's eyes suddenly snapped open and he met Byers' gaze. Byers instantly blushed scarlet, feeling as if he had been stripped naked in front of Langly. He felt as embarrassed and guilty as a six year old boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Panicking, he leaped to his feet, babbling. "Um . . . I'll let you rest, okay? Er . . . take it easy and I'll see you later . . . "

He got out of the room quicker than anything he'd ever done in his life. Shut the the door behind him as if it held nameless terrors. Tried to bring his breathing back to normal.

//This is Langly, okay? Same old Langly you've known for ten years.

Omigod.//

Day 2, 3 PM

Byers was poring over an aerial view of Area 51, a satellite photo they hadn't seen before, using some pirated enhancement software to bring out details too small to see before. His nose was only inches from the screen.

"Found anything, Byers?"

Byers leaped about six inches in the air, and swivelled round. Langly stood there, loose limbed and relaxed as always, the usual slightly scornful, almost contemptuous expression on his face. Byers felt himself beginning to blush again and thanked God for the low lighting level.

//He startled me, that's all. No more than that.//

  - then that's why your heart is going a mile a minute?

//Look . . . maybe I was mistaken. He couldn't possibly be interested in me like that. He still calls me Narcboy, still sneers about my working for the FCC. He thinks I'm a geek!"//

Langly leaned forward, waving a hand in front of his face. "Hello? Anyone home?"

"Er . . sorry, um . . .yes. . . wanna take a look?"

Langly came close and bent down to look at the screen. Then he squatted down for a better look, right next to Byers. He steadied himself with a hand on the armrest of Byers' chair. He was close enough for Byers to see the fair down of hair on his forearm. Byers could smell the mingled scents of him, aftershave and faint whiff of soap and, stronger, the sharp male smell of musk and sweat. Byers inhaled again, deeper, almost dizzy from the intoxication of it.

//No, stop, concentrate . . .//

His head only a couple of inches from Byers' arm. His hair brushed Byers' sleeve.

//I could brush it off . . . that would be a natural thing to do wouldn't it? Not suspicious? Just touch it casually like that?

Touch it . . . it would be so soft . . .

Omigod.//

Day 3, 8 AM

"Hey guys, either of you seen my Pink Floyd teeshirt?"

Byers turned in his chair at the breakfast table. Langly was standing by his bedroom door. Wearing jeans. That was all. Tight. Very tight. Very revealing. Revealing every muscle in his long thighs, the slim hips, prominent bulge right *there* and . . .

Frohike piped up from the other side of the table. "If that's the one you dropped on the bathroom floor last night, it's still there."

Langly grunted and turned back to the bedroom. Those jeans sure were tight. Tight on his hips, his ass . . . the way he moves . . .

Byers gulped and nearly inhaled the last of his coffee. Avoiding Frohike's snort of amusement, he headed back to the office. Logged on to his email and tried to work. Tried.

//. . . . standing there in just his jeans, like an alabaster statue, no, like marble . . . like Michelangelo's David . . . smooth and cool and beautiful . . . only not cold, no, if I was to reach out my hand and touch him, he'd be warm, warm, and his muscles would slide and move under my hand, smooth like silk, firm and strong, I could feel the pulse of him, the blood running under his skin, heating my hand, heating him, feeling his heartbeat through my fingers . . .

This is ridiculous. I've seen him hundreds of times like that. And I'm not interested in guys. Not any more anyway. Not for years. I've grown out of all that. It's just . . .

Omigod.//

Day 4, 6 PM

Byers leaned against the counter top in the kitchen, staring out of the small barred window. Behind him he could hear the routine noises of the HQ, whirr and chatter of machinery and air conditioning, tap of computer keyboards and the occasional muffled remark.

//Only four days . . . it feels like four years. I've got to work this out.//

Four days of jumping like a startled deer whenever Langly addressed a remark to him, four days of blushing furiously whenever he came within touching distance. Feeling his stomach churn in embarrassment and shyness whenever Langly looked in his direction. Going through the most amazing contortions to avoid having to touch him, even to hand him a piece of paper.

//He's going to notice. I've got to get myself under control or he's going to notice. Goddammit, why can't I handle this? Why should I be *shy* with Langly of all people?//

  - Because you never thought of this. Never thought of him in *this* way.

There was always Susanne in the background, as long as you've known him. And guys . . . well there was Steve back in high school, and Chuck at college, and . . . well, then you always thought you'd grown out of all that. And then there was Baltimore, and Susanne.

But now . . . Susanne has gone. You accept that now. But . . . Langly?

//No, no, I couldn't . . .//

Day 5, 9 PM

Langly was bored. Looking for amusement.

"Hey Byers, did you look at my Celebrity Skin? Left it on the desk for you. Pretty hot babes in it."

"Um . . maybe later. Er . . . give it to Mel first if you like."

"I'm asking *you*. C'mon John, don't be shy. You can borrow it, I don't mind. Don't you wanna look at it?"

//Oh God, he's coming over. Leaning across me, hand on the corner of my desk as he leans across, grabs the magazine. His hair's brushing my cheek, I can feel his breath on my neck, oh god, please, do something ... If I turned my head right now . .//

But Langly straightened up. Clouted Byers casually on the top of his head, with the magazine, rumpling his hair. Byers flinched involuntarily, startled. "Langly!" Hating the whine in his voice.

And Langly ostentatiously raised his hands, moved away, smirking. "Woo, boy, touchy tonight aren't we? Shorts too tight, are they?"

Byers turned back to the screen, angrily. Hating himself.

//I lost it. I should have said something. *Done* something. Stupid, stupid . . .//

Day 6 - 12.30 AM

Langly was lying on the couch. Taking up all the room, sprawled full length and fast asleep. That didn't matter too much since Frohike had gone to bed some time ago and Byers was comfortably established in the armchair. He was watching the rerun of an episode of Stargate he'd missed first time round. Or trying to watch.

//He's asleep, and still he distracts me. Just lying there and I'm aware of him with every cell in my body, every nerve ending.//

Sprawled there in complete relaxation, like a leopard sleeping after the hunt. Soft even breathing, chest rising and falling regularly. Fingertips twitching slightly as he dreams.

He drew a deeper breath and turned towards Byers. Hips stirring slightly, a soft moan escaping him. Tongue slipping out to moisten his lips, eyelids fluttering. His hand traveled down to his groin where the telltale bulge was growing. Hand pressing on his cock and his hips thrust gently.

Byers couldn't drag his eyes away. Heat poured up from inside him like a wave, centring in his chest, his belly, his cock. His throat was tight, his breath coming short.

//If I was to get up and go to him now, sit down beside him, touch him, my hand over his on his groin, pressing, caressing . . . then when he opened his eyes and saw me, then it would happen, it would be so natural, so right, so easy . . .

No. No, I can't do this. I just *can't* . . .//

He scrambled to his feet and dashed for the bathroom. Blissfully cool, private, alone, he leaned his back against the door and slid his hand inside his boxers. Now, yes, oh Ringo, yes . . .

Oh God.

I want him.//

End Part 5

 

* * *

 

There's a serious shortage of new slash around here . . so this is just a little snippet from the "Waiting" series that didn't make it into the final version. Nothing heavy; hardly slash at all in fact.

WAVERING by Alison  
Feedback to:   
Category: Langly/Byers slash/romance  
Disclaimer: They're not mine etc  
Archive: Unusual Suspects, Basement, Ephemeral, Gossamer, anyone else just ask  
Spoilers: Nope  
Summary: Missing scene from the "Waiting" series: between 5 and 6 I guess. Let's call it Part 5.5.  
NOTE: The story so far: Langly wants Byers: Byers has only just found out. Langly doesn't know he knows. With me so far?

* * *

Langly POV

I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. 

I can't keep my hands off him much longer. Not if he goes on acting the way he is. 

I noticed it when Mel left at the weekend to go up to New York for a few days' vacation, leaving us two alone here. John has been acting kinda weird ever since. 

If I didn't know him so well, I'd bet he knew how I feel about him and he was doing it deliberately to drive me nuts. But *Byers* acting like that? Our Narc? No way.

It started that first morning. I drag myself out of bed as usual at about 11 am - well that's still *morning* isn't it, just? And he's there at his computer as usual. But in old jeans and a teeshirt. On a Monday morning. I mean, this is Byers?

He looked at me kinda disapprovingly, the way he's taken to doing recently. Seems like he's even more Narc now than ever, like he doesn't even want to be in the same room as me anymore. Like he doesn't trust me anymore. Some times recently I've brushed past him and he's jumped about a foot in the air, like I had some kind of disease or something.

I don't know what I've done to piss him off. Well, apart from coming home smashed the other night when he had to put me to bed. But he's done that before and never made a big deal of it before now. 

It's killing me. If I can't even live with him anymore, if he doesn't want me around, then that's the end. I'd have to leave. Move out, tell the guys I had to find a place of my own. Then I'd only see him in work time. 

I don't think I could stand that.

So anyway, that first morning when I go in, he gets up and says "Coffee's nearly ready. Want some?" I mutter thanks, yes, and he heads for the kitchen. 

Two minutes later there's a yelp from the kitchen and a clatter like something fell on the floor. I get up and go to look, and he's there, there's a pool of coffee in the middle of the floor, and he's standing there with his wet teeshirt in his hand and wiping at his chest with a towel. He looks up at me, blushing. God, he's such a wuss. He didn't want me to see him without his shirt!

I've seen him like that a hundred times before of course. In the bathroom or changing or whatever. And in my dreams. In my dreams more and more, and a lot more than just looking at him.

But my god he's worth looking at. He's slim built, but there's not an ounce of fat on him, it's all muscle. Lean and firm and hard. Nicely defined biceps, his arms look strong. Good pecs too. Nipples the colour of copper coins. Pale skin, so smooth . . . some freckles to go with his dark red hair. His hair . . . not much hair on his chest, smooth bare skin just the way I like it. Just a faint trail down his stomach, leading down to his navel and further down, down . . . God, if only he knew what it does to me just to look at him . . .

I manage to drag my eyes away and look up. He's scarlet with embarrassment, red hot. He's stammering something about spilling the coffee. 

So what do I do now . . . my first impulse is to make like I want to check that he hasn't burned himself . . I could ask him, tell him to let me see, get a wet cloth and bathe his chest . . . and then maybe take it from there. . .

But no. He'd freak. He has no idea how I feel. But he does know my preferences, and if I was to start getting touchy-feely with him . . . we wouldn't see him for dust. 

So I just stand there and he does too, like he's expecting me to do something. Then if anything he blushes even more. The flush spreads ven over his chest when he's really flustered. God, he's so cute . . . you know when I don't actually want to fuck him (which is most of the time) I'd just want to take care of him. Protect him from the big bad world. 

So anyway we're both just standing there and suddenly it's like he's *mad* at me for some reason. Mutters something like "you're a lot of help" and pushes past me mumbling something about going to change. He goes into his room and the door slams so hard the whole room shakes.

I decide I ought to do something about cleaning up the mess, so I get a cloth and mop up the coffee. And you know what was weird? The coffee was stone cold. 

END

**************************

"Many small people who in many small places do many small things can alter the face of the world"  
Graffiti on the Berlin Wall

 

* * *

 

WELCOMING  
6/6 in the "Waiting" series  
Feedback to:   
Category: Langly/Byers slash  
Disclaimer: They're not mine etc  
Archive: Unusual Suspects, Basement, Ephemeral, Gossamer, anyone else just ask  
Spoilers: Nope  
Summary: First Contact

* * *

John stood looking at himself in the mirror.

Well, this has gotta work. Surely it'll work this time.

Three days since Mel went up to New York, and we've only got four days left. Time's running out.

The last three days, I've done everything I can to make him see. Everything short of walking around naked. I thought he wanted me. But he hasn't so much as laid a finger on me. Surely I'm not mistaken? What do I have to do? Climb into bed naked with him? Strip off and get in the shower with him? Or maybe the direct approach. Hey Langly, how about it. Wanna fuck?

He shrugged out of his bathrobe and looked at himself critically, dressed in just his old worn blue pajama pants. Could be better . . . but I don't look too bad, do I? Thank God I've been working out a bit more recently. If only it was summer and I had a bit more of a tan . . . No, it's now or never. The two of us here alone together ... late at night ... ready for bed ... hardly any clothes on ... in my bedroom ... in the dark ... on the floor ... if this doesn't work, nothing will.

He took a deep breath, checked that everything was in place, and prepared to put his plan into operation.

The first Langly knew about it was the loud crash from the kitchen. He shot out of his bedroom and across the hall, and was faced with the sight of John in the kitchen, wearing nothing but those faded blue pajama pants (just a little too tight) crouching on the kitchen floor rummaging in one of the kitchen cupboards, with his slim back and shoulders and that very attractive ass in good view. Langly gulped and tried to keep his voice on an even keel; but all that came out was a strangled croak.

"Crysake Byers, whatcha doing? It's nearly one am! Whatcha looking for?"

"A flashlight".

"Okay, okay, ask a stupid question .. . what do you want a flashlight at this time of night?" and he flicked the light switch. "The power hasn't gone off."

John muttered "Lost contact lens".

"What!!!"

"I've dropped a contact lens, in my bedroom, while I was cleaning it. This is the best way of finding one, didn't you know? You turn out the lights and shine the flashlight around, and the lens catches the light and shows up."

"Yeah, yeah".

"You could always come and help me look".

"Sure, OK, this I gotta see".

// GOTCHA!! //

and John grabbed the flashlight and led the way back to his bedroom, Langly following behind and looking wistfully at his back view all the way.

John pushed the door of the bedroom closed. Now that the moment was so close at hand, he was scared. Shaking inside, almost terrified to go on and terrified to back out. He could feel Langly standing close beside him; smell the intoxicating smell of him just out of the shower, almost feel the heat coming off him. Heat like a radiator, he desperately wanted to touch. Langly was so close, that as he turned his head, John could feel his breath on his shoulder.

Langly looked around. "Okay Johnboy, where were you when it happened?"

He crossed to the bedside table. "it was over here somewhere. Can you turn the light out?"

Langly complied and in the same second John turned on the flashlight. Careful, mustn't find it too soon. Good job I do know exactly where it is...."

He looked at Langly, bare-chested in the candlelight glow of the flashlight in nothing but his shorts. Slim and beautiful, pale skin and well defined muscle. . . God, he looks fantastic. Why did I never realise before? I only hope I look as good to him. "Somewhere down here . . ." and he knelt down by the bed, shining the flashlight carefully in the wrong direction.

"It figures you'd wear contacts" grumbled Langly, getting down on hands and knees and looking around critically. "Glasses are a lot less hassle".

"Sure, if you want to look like Garth" - that earned him a dirty look, and John could have bitten his tongue out. That particular brand of teasing had always been off limits, and he would never have said it if he hadn't been so nervous. Langly would probably walk out on him. But Langly didn't leave.

"I think it went down here by the bed" John mumbled, and started to shine the flashlight around the floor.

"Jeez, this floor is rough" complained Langly. "Make sure you don't get any splinters in your ass."

Well, at least the conversation was going in the right direction. Just hold that thought, Langly.

"Just keep looking, okay?"

Ten minutes later he was embarrassed and flustered and wishing he had never got into this. The contact lens had not made an appearance. They had however discovered an abandoned thumb tack when Langly inadvertently put his hand down on it -

"Ow!"

"Sorry, Langly"

\- a piece of discarded candy bar wrapper -

"Hey, I did't realise you were a secret candy addict, Byers. Any other nighttime vices I should know about?"

//If only you knew ...//

a chip of glass midway between the two of them, which they both reached for at the same time -

"Ow!"

"Sorry, Langly"

as their heads met with a resounding crack;

and finally when Byers had accidentally shone the flashlight full into Langly's eyes -

"Ow!"

"Sorr -"

"Jeez, Byers, trying to kill me? Give me the flashlight, you're lethal with that thing" and Langly grabbed it before John could stop him. Langly shone it full at him and John blinked, feeling as paralysed as a rabbit in the headlights.

"Hey, there" Langly's exclamation came at the same second as John saw the diamond flash of the lens in the corner where he can so carefully planted it. But the sensation which overcame all his other senses was the brush of Langly's hair on his shoulder as he leant past John to pick up the lens.

"Here, Johnboy" and the lens was presented to him on the palm of Langly's outstretched hand in front of his face. He looked past the hand into Langly's eyes, wide-pupilled - was that just because of the dim light, or something more? - but the same old Langly cynical smirk.

"Uh, great, thanks Lang" John stammered and reached out, trying not to touch Langly's hand with his fingertips as he took it carefully.

He smiled at Langly and turned and put the lens back in its case. Turning back to Langly, he realised that his friend had not moved. Was just looking. Staring at him in the lamplight. John couldn't tear his eyes away. For what seemed like forever they just looked at each other, kneeling on the floor by the bed. John's heart was hammering. What do I do now? I've never seduced another man before. I was stupid to get into this. What do I do now? Langly, I know you want this. Do something!

And Langly did. He grinned at John, his usual tight unreadable grin that yet had something like pain beind it. He got to his feet. "Well, at least we can go to bed now....uh, I mean . . ."

For a couple more heartbeats John stayed kneeling there, at Langly's feet. Then he scrambled to his feet, but managed to stumble and started to lose his balance. Langly grabbed him by both shoulders, pulled him up and held him. Just held him, hands on John's biceps, closer now than they had ever been, eye to eye and breath to breath. They were almost exactly the same height; their faces were only inches apart. They stared at each other for another eternity.

"John ..."

"Yeah . . ."

Then Langly's arm was sliding behind his back, and his other hand was behind John's head, and in the next second his mouth was on John's. Arms pulling him close, contact of heat all down his body and igniting every cell in his body. And yes, it was really happening, Langly was really kissing him as he had never been kissed in his life before. Tentative for the first split second, then rapidly gaining strength and passion as he realised that John was not resisting, in fact was co-operating, and then not just co-operating but actively, enthusiastically responding.

Nothing in John's few previous experiences of sex with other guys had prepared him for this, for the uncontrollable tide of passion which rushed through him obliterating his inhibitions and reservations like a tidal wave. All he was aware of was Langly's arms round him, Langly's body pressing hard against him, and most of all Langly kissing him, desperately and voraciously, as if the chance might never come again. His lips were hard and demanding on John's own, his tongue was in John's mouth, probing and questioning, questions which John was doing his best to answer in a language he had almost forgotten, a language purely of instinct, all thought impossible.

But he must have been doing something right, because the kiss went on and on, until they broke apart eventually, gasping breathlessly, dumbstruck. Then Langly stiffened, his face closing down, as if horrified by what he had done. "Oh god . . ." and he started to pull himself away. But he was stopped by John tightening his hands on his shoulders.

"No." He met Langly's eyes, intensely, holding his gaze. "We've wasted too much time already."

The silence could have been only a couple of heartbeats, but it seemed to last the space of half an hour as they looked at each other, right in the eyes at last.

John knew the next move was up to him; he reached out to touch the blond hair as he had so longed to do, as he had only ever done once before, that one time casually and carelessly in the hotel room in Las Vegas; this time running it through his fingers like fine silk, exactly as he had known it would be. He met Langly's eyes again; eyes that had never left his face, drinking him down like water in the desert.

He pulled Langly towards him, taking control now for the first time, and the kiss was deep, long, passionate and tender all at the same time; tongues sliding gently against each other and mouths melting together. Langly's hands were sliding down his back now, over his ass, pulling their hips tight together, and he could feel something hard that could only be Langly's cock pressing against his belly. Then one hand moved, slid up and under the waistband of his pants and down again, sliding hot over his skin and over the curve of his ass, and he moaned aload and felt his legs start to weaken under him and lurched back, pulling Langly with him, feeling the bed behind him as he stepped back and half fell, half slid down on to the bed with Langly partly beside him and partly on top.

Langly rolled over on top of him, one hand completing the task of pushing his pants off of his hips, then hooking his leg over John's hip, his erection pressing hard against John's thigh. His fingers were digging hard into John's arms, his weight on top of John triggering a wave of heat that rippled through every nerve in his body. Langly took his mouth again in a long consuming kiss, pressing his head back into the pillows, and John felt as if his entire body was melting like wax. Langly was like a force of nature, elemental, unstoppable as a fire or a flood, and John felt no more able to resist him than he would a hurricane.

He pulled his mouth away from Langly's long enough to cry out in sheer joy and relief. Langly hitched himself up a a little, a questioning, panicking look crossing his face. He was breathing hard, and when he was able to speak his voice was like John had never heard it before, husky with passion. "John . . for godsake, if you want me to stop, tell me now because . . you go on doing this to me and I won't be able to stop . . ."

John grabbed at Langly's shoulders. "Langly . . . *Ringo*, Ringo . . . you stop now and I'll never speak to you again . . ."

Langly let out a long shuddering breath, half sigh, half laugh, and dropped his head towards John's chest. "Oh god, John, you're killing me here . . you don't know what you're doing to me . . . it's been so long . . ."

John reached for him, tangling his hands in the blonde hair, pulling his head up so Langly was forced to look at him. "I want you." He moved his hands to Langly's hips, pulling the shorts down and exposing the whole of that beautiful pale body for the first time, letting his gaze rove over the chest, belly and down to the groin and the flushed, hard cock. He felt his heartrate increase and an involuntary shudder of anticipation shook his whole body. "I want you, Ringo."

Langly was propped over him, hands each side of John's body, panting a little, poised like a predator with his prey helpless beneath him, ready for the kill. John moved his head a little, exposing his throat, an action of pure basic instinct; Langly paused a split second, swallowed, then swooped to fasten his mouth at the base of John's neck, mouthing and licking, his breath hot on John's skin, moving upwards to the sensitive point under his ear and along the line of his beard.

John pulled him closer, tightening his arms round Langly, thrilling to the feel of him in his arms at last, the smell and the taste of him when he began to kiss down Langly's neck. Langly gasped out loud when he found a particular sensitive point on his shoulder and his hips thrust instinctively against John. The movement crushed John's already hard cock between their bodies; he hadn't realised how hard he was getting. He could feel Langly's cock too, hard against his balls, throbbing hot and wet against him. He had forgotten the incredible heat of another man, how much it turned him on.

So long ago: so much he had forgotten. The smell of another man's arousal mixed with his own; the sheer compelling weight of another man's body on top of him; the hardness of muscle and bone and the heat of an erect cock pressing against his belly as Langly found his mouth once again.

So long ago: but it had never been like this. He knew he had never been desired, wanted, loved like this. Langly seemed literally unable to stop kissing him; breaking away only to catch a gasping breath before returning to his exploration of John's mouth. John gave himself up to it; willingly letting Langly do whatever he wanted.

He moved downward, biting ravenously on John's neck, muttering incoherent syllables that made no sense. John could only murmur reassuringly, encouragingly in his ear, meanwhile giving in to his own impulse to let his hands roam over Langly's shoulders and down his spine, exploring for the first time the firm muscles of the shoulders, the smooth skin over the ribcage and the enticing curve of the buttocks. He ran his hands lightly, savouringly over the skin of Langly's ass, exploring everywhere he had longed to touch, searching out every curve of his body, knowing he would have all the time in the world, later, to discover every inch of his lover.

Langly's hair had fallen over John's face, light and sweet smelling and tingling wherever it touched, almost burning on John's skin. John shifted his hips, moved his legs apart and Langly felt it, gasped and thrust his hips against John's, moaning deep in his throat. John felt the vibration right through him, sending a shaft of pure lust from his chest down to his groin. He was harder than he had thought possible; excitement and desire making him more aroused than he ever remembered being for years. He wrapped his arms tight around Langly's shoulders, pulling him closer and thrusting up against him.

He could feel Langly's cock hard against his own, pushing against him harder than ever, both of them hot and engorged, weeping stickiness against their bellies and mingling with their sweat. He was so close to the edge now, and Langly was too . .there was no time for anything else, so this was how it was going to be, their first time, so easy, so simple . . . he opened his legs further and wrapped his thighs round Langly's hips, pushing up against the other man, desperate to get closer, closer, welcoming Langly in every way he could.

He slid his hands up and down Langly's biceps, feeling the tension in the muscles as they tensed and and relaxed in regular rhythm; Langly was supporting himself on his elbows, his head close above John's again, his hands tangled in John's hair. He was thrusting deliberately against John now, the pumping of his hips a counterpoint to John's own movements, and they were spiralling upward together, pulling each other up, up towards the peak, together, finally together at last. Somehow in the final screaming desperate split seconds before his climax took him, John was aware of Langly's mouth fastening on his again before his orgasm broke over him in a soundless explosion.

A long time later when he finally opened his eyes, he wasn't sure where he was. A golden mist was all he could see, and something warm and firm was pressed against him all down his right side. Blinking to clear his vision he realised that the gold was the dim lamplight shining through gold hair; gold hair was draped all over his face. Pushing it out of his eyes and squinting sideways he saw the face of his lover; Langly was asleep like a child with his head on John's shoulder, snuggled against him with his arm across John's chest. Face calm and peaceful and innocent, as John had never seen him before.

He bent his head to press a kiss to Langly's forehead, and the younger man murmured sleepily, his lips twitching and eyelids fluttering. John settled back, smiling to himself. Let him sleep. He had the feeling they were both going to need all the rest they could get.

Let him sleep. But not too long . . .

THE END  
(of the beginning . . . :)

  
Archived: August 31, 2001 


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